Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

"Finally got you, you weak bastard!" Ballard roared above me, his cedar scent spiking with a sickening, triumphant malice as I crumpled to the ice, clutching my chest.

​Prrrrrt!

​The referee’s whistle blew instantly, sharp and furious. The linesman came tearing into the zone, shoving Ballard back as the referee signaled a major penalty for charging and boarding.

The stadium erupted into a deafening chorus of boos, thousands of fans slamming their hands against the glass in outrage.

​"Captain Evans!" Russo’s voice was distant, filled with panic as he skated hard toward me, but someone else got there first.

​A massive shadow blocked out the stadium lights. Reid dropped to one knee beside me, his smoky grey eyes entirely dark, the lazy, snobbish smirk completely vanished from his face.

The frozen pine scent radiating off him was suddenly sharp, icy, and laced with a terrifying, protective territorial edge that made my inner Omega shudder.

​"Don’t move," Reid commanded, his heavy, gloved hand instantly stabilizing my shoulder, preventing me from rolling over. "Where does it hurt?"

​"I’m... fine," I choked out, my voice coming out as a strained, pathetic gasp.

Every single movement felt like a jagged piece of glass twisting directly into my side. It felt like he had broken a rib or two, the pain throbbing with a sickening, rhythmic intensity that made me dizzy.

​Coach Devin was already screaming from the bench, gesturing for the trainer to come out onto the ice, but I forced my good arm down against the ice, pushing myself up. I couldn’t walk off this ice on a stretcher. I was the Captain.

If the media saw me carried off after a hit from an Alpha, the narrative tomorrow would ruin everything I had built.

​"Russo... help me up," I gritted out, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ground together.

​Reid didn’t wait for Russo. He slid his arm under my armpit, effortlessly lifting the bulk of my weight to take the pressure off my left side as we got to our feet.

The stadium cheered tentatively as I stood, but I was leaning heavily against his sturdy frame, my face entirely pale under my visor.

​"You’re done for the night, Evans," Reid muttered, his voice dropping into a low, harsh growl that was strictly meant for me. "You can barely breathe."

​"Shut up," I wheezed, keeping my eyes fixed on the ice to hide the agony framing my expression.

I looked up at the referee, who was directing Ballard to the penalty box, then turned my head slightly toward Reid.

"Take the penalty shot, McCoy. Put the game away."

​Reid stared down at me, his eyes tracking the tight strain in my mouth and the way my right hand remained locked over my ribs.

For a second, I thought he was going to argue, to force me to the medical bay himself just to prove he could command me. But then his jaw set into a hard, rigid line.

​"Go sit it out," Reid said, his tone turning into something cold and unyielding. "I’ll handle the rest."

He handed me to Russo, and I leaned heavily against him as he guided me toward the bench.

The trainer rushed over the second my skates cleared the gate, hands immediately pressing carefully against my ribs, but I tuned him out. My eyes were locked entirely on the ice.

​Reid was skating toward the center dot, the puck waiting for him.

​Sitting there, hunched over and desperately trying to shallow-breathe past the agonizing pain in my chest, a strange thought filtered through the pain. He didn’t call me weak.

​Before the Lake Placid retreat, when Reid just thought I was a standard Beta captain keeping him on a tight leash, he’d used that word like a weapon.

He’d mocked my methods, dismissed my authority, and called me a weak captain who didn’t have the volatile Alpha instincts to back up my status.

But ever since he found out the truth—ever since he smelled my real scent and realized I was an Omega this whole time—he hadn’t used that word once.

​Not when I was trembling on the floor, not when I was buckling under his pheromones, and not just now, when I was crumpled on the ice. It was a bizarre contradiction.

You’d think an arrogant Alpha like him would use my dynamic to degrade me further, to hammer in how biologically inferior I was in this brutal, violent league.

But instead, knowing an Omega was doing all this tough work, taking these massive hits from heavy-set Alphas, and still standing right back up... it had changed something in his approach.

He was actively supporting my play, protecting my position on the ice, and putting his own massive chest on the line to back up my calls.

​I didn’t think about it in a literal, sentimental sense. We couldn’t afford to lose the game, obviously, but the fierce, protective edge he’d just shown was entirely different. It was a riddle I couldn’t solve, and frankly, my ribs hurt too much to try.

​On the ice, the referee blew the whistle.

​Reid moved. He picked up the puck at center ice, his long, powerful strides creating a terrifying amount of speed in a matter of seconds. He crossed the blue line, weaving in a brilliant, deceptive motion that made the Vancouver goaltender freeze.

Right at the hash marks, Reid faked a heavy wrist shot, forcing the goalie to drop into a butterfly stance, before deftly pulling the puck to his backhand and roofing it over the desperate glove.

​The red light exploded. The horn wailed, deafening and triumphant. 6-3.

​The final horn sounded just seconds later, securing the victory. The stadium went absolutely wild, chanting the Serpents’ name as the team flooded the ice to celebrate.

I closed my eyes for a second. We won. It was inevitable since I had put my all into it. I studied Vancouver’s game play over and over to come up with strategies that rivaled on how they played, and my strategies worked.

I didn’t stay to watch the handshakes. The trainer practically dragged me down the back corridor straight to the arena’s medical clinic to get an X-ray scan.

​The clinic was quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring stadium just beyond the walls. I was sitting on the edge of the examination table, my blue jersey peeled down to my waist, revealing a horrific, purple-black bruise already blooming across my left ribcage.

The doctor had just stepped out to print the scans when the heavy door clicked open.

And Reid walked in.